Father of the Deceased

by Egon Grimes

  “Don’t sound fun. I was hoping you were going to say you had a horny dream about me.”

  “You pervert.” She began to walk away feeling silly that she even told him.

  “I’ll be extra careful, okay?”

  Without turning around, she called back to him, “Good, you’d make a terrible rug anyway.” That hurt him and although Alice had gone stepped past a tent, she could sense that and stopped to put her head back around the corner. “Hey, sorry, I didn’t mean it. You’d make a great rug.”

  He smiled.

  She couldn’t spill everything. The dream was too bizarre and a little on point with his guess. In the beginning of her dream, she couldn’t remember what or who had caused the scene because she and he were hiding in his trailer, he on top of her, then her on top of him, all intermingled in sticky sex. The man entered the trailer and she wielded the knife cutting into Alejandro’s skull while the man watched.

  23

  Ivan felt two pulls through the evening and into the morning, but once he arrived at the Chatham city limits, the pull left and fatigue hit.

  Thoughts of what he did only an hour earlier seemed like days before, a time he might never forget. He sidelined his car—no doubt a marked vehicle—at a local park, gathered his things, and walked to a Best Western motel.

  In the car remained his very little connecting him to either crime, but he didn’t have any Ontario plates and being inconspicuous in a small Ontario city with the Ohio plates on the car was doubtful. The car was a wash, a throw away. He didn’t care. He had to find the man, or being, that forced his hand and mouth.

  But not until he rested.

  Rejuvenation would bring revenge, Ivan was certain.

  “Make me a homo, I’ll make you dead,” Ivan muttered lugging his bags.

  24

  The longer you sit here, the further away he gets.

  Maybe he went south; a lot of land down there. Goddamn needle in a haystack.

  You know he probably went into Canada, go get him. It’s not like Canada is a small town. It’s a huge goddamned place, a ton of places to hide.

  You’ve got to get him. He has Rosalind, somehow.

  Call Lou.

  He dialed the department number, waited for the prompt and punched Lou’s line. It rang twice.

  “Detective Hill here.”

  “Lou, it’s Maurice. Tell me you found the guy.”

  Lou sighed. “Moe, I’m not supposed to—”

  “What would you do in my spot? Think about it. Imagine your kids in a casket, hard enough, right? Now picture their tongues chopped out and your kid’s babysitter dead in the hole. What the hell would you do?” Maurice took a long drag off a cigarette.

  Lou sighed again. “Okay,” he started in a throaty whisper, “it turns out he crossed into Canada. We have a video of who we think is the perp. White. Must have been wearing makeup at the cemetery. Get this: the border guard stopped him and the guy blew him to get across. It is the strangest thing. The guard said it was a beautiful woman, but it was this guy and the damndest thing was it watches like the perp tempted him with his legs, just like the guard explains it, but the guy was wearing pants, I don’t know what could have been enticing about it straight or gay.”

  “Has the border guard watched the video?” Maurice forgot about his daughter for a tenth of a second.

  “He has. Hasn’t changed his story. Still swears up and down that it was a beautiful woman and it was the best blow job he’d ever had.”

  “So the man is in Canada?”

  “Seems so.”

  “Will you call me if anyone finds anything?”

  “Moe.”

  “Fuck you, Lou.”

  “Fine, but you know it is my ass. The captain’ll know who gave you the information if you find the guy. If you find the guy, you have to go to the cops. You can’t deal with it yourself. Think of Ruby, think of Rhoda, they need you.” Lou’s whisper grew louder.

  Captain D’Souza stepped out of his office.

  Lou felt like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Miss, I’m sorry, your kids a crackhead, I can’t bring him to you next time I arrest him,” Lou said, much louder than he had been speaking.

  Maurice said nothing.

  —

  “Where are you going?” Rhoda asked.

  “Canada.”

  “What in the hell for?” She spoke as calmly as was possible.

  “The guy who hurt Rosalind is in Canada.”

  “This is crazy. Let the Mounties catch him then. You don’t have any power in Canada. Where in Canada anyway?”

  Maurice shrugged. “I’m going to get the call, but I need to be ready, or this sicko will get away.”

  “You can’t go. I won’t let you. Call the—”

  Maurice frowned at his wife. It didn’t make any sense that she wanted him to stay, especially since Rosalind was in trouble. “I have to help her. I’ve seen her fear and pain. Rhoda, if you’d just saw it for yourself.”

  “From this mysterious psychic, right? The one you say has very recently died. Wait was that before or after she showed you Rosalind’s ghost?”

  “She was alive and is now dead,” Maurice said frankly.

  “So you’re going to drive around Canada and just look for him. I know Canada isn’t that big, but think about it.”

  If only that were true. “Canada is bigger than the U.S. Second biggest country on the planet, just hardly anyone lives there.”

  “Fine, whatever. So that makes it more likely you’ll find him? This sicko—”

  “Lou’s going to call me with leads when I’m up there, he’d better call me. I’ll find him.” He shut the door of the family Jeep Cherokee. The Jeep was Rhoda’s daily use vehicle. The ignition lit the quiet machine and Maurice sat thinking for a second. Rhoda stood at the door, too angry to cry, he held the window button. It came down a half foot. “I love you both, but I have to do this.”

  Rhoda turned and slammed the door, rocking the window and knocking a Robin’s nest down from above the brass light fixture. Another family ruined.

  Ruby stood at the living room window, a wide bay view deal that gave a picture of the neighborhood—nice, clean, and peaceful. Maurice waved and then rolled backward out the driveway.

  Maurice wasn’t ten minutes out of town when his phone rang. Caller I.D. gave away any surprise. “Lou?”

  Lou was whispering again. “The perp’s car was spotted in a park. It is in a little city north-east of Windsor called Chatham,” he pronounced the TH. “He wasn’t at his car, but according to the VIN, the last registered owner was Bob’s Towing, sold as scrap, but obviously not scrap. The VIN is really all we have so far.”

  “Are you going to call Bob’s Towing? Where is Bob’s Towing out of?”

  “California. Tecate, California. The guy might be from Mexico, but I doubt it. It seems he has no trouble crossing borders. Maybe he uses his talents at every border.”

  “Right. Okay. Keep me posted.”

  “Are you driving?”

  “Just going to the store, need more cigarettes.” This wasn’t a lie and he pulled into a Chevron. “Call me when you have more.”

  “I’ll stop by tonight and we can figure this out.”

  “No! Call me when you know something.”

  “Fine, but don’t smoke too much, your lungs aren’t used to it.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” Maurice said and ended the call, to step into the store.

  25

  Lou called Bob’s Towing. Stolen car: a common story in the shady world of sales. The man stated that he didn’t report because the car’s future included the scrap queue. The usual threats, ICE, IRS, assisting in the murder of teen, had zero effect. Bob, a man who sounded more like a Juan or Miguel, on the other end of the line had heard it all before or plain didn’t care. He was in the right of course, if he was clean.

  Lou dialed Maurice’s cell number and then changed his mind and tried the home line. After one ring, th
e phone was snatched up.

  “Maurice?” Rhoda shouted.

  “Uh, no, this is Lou. Maurice isn’t home yet?”

  “Home from where?”

  “He said he was at the store, I assumed he’d come home. That was about half an hour ago, maybe forty-five,” Lou said, cringing.

  “Why are you calling him?”

  “I have information on the car, well not really, but I thought, ya know.”

  “You sonofabitch. He drove to Canada and I know where he got his information, not that I didn’t figure as much. You don’t give a shit about your family, but Maurice loves us,” Rhoda seethed. “Did you know he’s lost his mind? Some fortune-teller got into his head and he thinks Rosalind is in trouble, but of course, she’s fucking dead. I think he’s had some kind of breakdown and now you’ve got him in Canada, running around like a maniac.”

  Lou hummed and then said, “He won’t be in Canada yet. When did he leave?”

  “I don’t know.” She looked at the clock. “About an hour ago, I guess. Can you call the border and tell them he is going to cross, stop him. Say his family wants him home or he’s drunk or something?”

  “Yeah, I suppose I could, but I shouldn’t.”

  “No buts, we need him home.”

  “Fine,” Lou said and then the connection died.

  The idea of turning his partner in, stupid, crazy, ridiculous, or not, churned his stomach. It wasn’t something he would do, but would tell Rhoda he had. Maurice was sure to calm down and come home when he didn’t find the guy.

  He dialed Maurice’s cell phone and explained the situation at home and the circumstances involving the car. Maurice was not happy about the car.

  26

  Maurice approached the tunnel entry, which was also the border crossing. He wondered if the horny guard sat in one of the little booths. That man deserved a punch.

  A little woman, no more than twenty-two or twenty-three, manned the booth he pulled up to. The vest she wore pressed her obviously meaty chest flat, causing things to squirm for freedom like pancake batter.

  She looked generally uncomfortable.

  Maurice handed his entire wallet out the window.

  “Well, hello Detective, where are we headed today?”

  “Going to visit my sick aunt in Hamilton.” He pulled that one from a memory of one of two times in his adult life that he’d crossed the border.

  “What she got?”

  “Lung cancer.” Ten years earlier, his aunt died of lung cancer. The best lies are always close to the truth.

  “Not good.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “I’m guessing you know the laws in Canada concerning your firearms.”

  “Of course, the state issued piece is at the station house, captain said he’d have one of the rookies calibrate and clean it while I was gone, and my personal piece is under my bed in a lockbox.” This lie was too long for comfort, but it seemed reasonable. Buddy buddy.

  “Sounds good. I hope your aunt gets better,” the woman said and handed the wallet back through the window.

  Maurice nodded and drove. The tunnel took a while to drive through. The orange lights flashed by his head.

  On his last trip to Canada, it was just he and Rhoda, the girls rode along in Rhoda’s womb, but neither knew yet. It was a lot of fun. They kept near the border and hit Niagara Falls. They stayed at a five-star place, overlooking the water, and the nights spent screwing, then eating room service, and then screwing some more.

  He and Rhoda had never been so in sync, but that changed with the girls, not entirely bad, though different. Life wasn’t all about work and play. It morphed into work and work, and if there was any time, play, but not likely.

  Anger seeped into him anew.

  Through the tunnel and on the highway, he took the first exit and sat looking off into the distance. His hands tightened around the wheel and he shook, trying to pull it out of its frame, vibrating his whole body; a howl coming from deep inside his chest. “Rosalind!” he screamed, tearing his fingers from the sturdy wheel and throwing them over his eyes.

  Behind his hands, a blue light shined. Another projection. He couldn’t make out what he was seeing, but refused to move in fear that the image might leave before he understood.

  Oh God.

  A hazy glow shifted the view and Rosalind’s silhouette appeared, flowing in, shaping amidst the glow. Maurice couldn’t call out, he couldn’t breathe, he only sat, watching the show. Other silhouettes filtered behind Rosalind. A mountain maybe, an elephant staggered along, a man blowing flame from his mouth. Not a mountain, a tent. As soon as his mind worked out the shape, the vision disappeared.

  The sunlight burned at Maurice’s eyes when he pulled his hands away. If he needed any further encouragement or proof, that was it. The man’s car was in Chatham and that is where Maurice had to go. He started the Jeep and pulled a wide U-turn on the county road, stopping several honking cars in their tracks. The on-ramp to the 401-Highway was feet ahead. Once on the highway a sign stated the speed, MAXIMUM 100 KM/H, just beyond the first was the second stating the distance to Windsor’s downtown, Toronto, and then to Chatham-Kent, seventy-nine kilometers.

  The clicks passed like blinks.

  The city moved like any other small city he’d been to; people going about their business, not knowing what lurks beneath the facade. The days had been too long and Maurice hadn’t had sufficient sleep.

  Coffee, he needed coffee.

  A Tim Horton’s on a busy corner, he pulled in. The place brimmed with customers, the drive-thru continued onto a side street and people lined up out the door. He parked the Jeep and looked at the clock: one.

  The lunch crowd.

  Each man in line was potentially the man he sought, his hand rested on his sidearm. The line moved slowly enough that Maurice ruled out the patrons in waiting one by one. The coffee he ordered was huge, like a truck stop Slurpee, and almost too hot to hold.

  Outside, he looked up to the sun. It seemed to laugh at him.

  Okay, you’re here, now what?

  The elephant stuck out in his mind.

  A zoo?

  After lighting a cigarette, he turned his key and lowered a window. An elderly man strolled up, also puffing away.

  “Is there a zoo in this town?”

  “Not in town, there is Greenview, it’s outside town, oh, about thirty-minutes south,” the old man said, happy to find conversation.

  “Any elephants?”

  “No, not too many elephants in Canada, Bob Barker, thinks he’s the king of the elephants, doesn’t think we should have them at all. Well I say they’re animals. Here for man’s enjoyment. That is why God made us in his image and not the animals.”

  “No elephants at all around here?” Maurice asked.

  “Not a one. There is a show in town. A circus, they might have an elephant, but I doubt that. I remember seeing that same circus, the Bantam Family Circus they call themselves, years ago, maybe thirty. They had an elephant then, but it is a little trashy looking now. I saw the show in Wallaceburg. They have a big fairground. Ours is small. Circus must be smaller, cheaper to run. Economy’s not so great. But I guess you know that, being from America and all.” He leaned his body around the back of the Jeep to show that he’d noticed the foreign plate.

  “Where’s this circus?”

  “The fairgrounds. Really like elephants do you?”

  “No…uh, I guess I do like elephants,” Maurice said. “Where are the fairgrounds?”

  “Eighty Tweedsmuir, right by the Fergie Jenkins diamond. You know he used to pitch for the Cubs? Won a Cy-Young too. You want me to make you a map to Tweedsmuir?”

  “No, I have GPS on my phone, but thanks. You’ve been a lot of help.”

  “Good luck on the elephants. Bob Barker can suck it.” He smiled and walked toward an eighties Brougham Cadillac that stretched three Smart car lengths.

  Maurice started the Jeep, rolled his window up to a crack an
d cranked the AC. The frosty air blew his hair around his forehead while he typed into his phone. Being two miles away from the site, he drove and parked. The fairgrounds parking lot sat vacant, ready for cars, too early for people visiting the circus, but soon enough, he figured the place might be the zoo he sought.

  “If he’s up here to cause trouble, this might be the place to do it,” Maurice said exhaling a cloud of smoke.

  He watched the busy individuals greasing and tightening, hammering and tying, looking for the man he came to find. A light flashed on his dash: low-fuel. Too hot to sit without AC, he had to fill up.

  They aren’t going anywhere.

  27

  Ivan awoke from a dreamless sleep around four. A good sleep, all considered. His thoughts quickly darkened, turned back to the man. The man with the hold.

  That fat shit guard kept calling me Miss, as in Miss can I give you a hand with those? or allow me, Miss, like he was holding open a door. And my chest. Couldn’t he feel that I was a man? Ivan rubbed hard at his temples, as if a massage would breed clarity. It didn’t.

  Ivan was on the first floor and a loud thump bumped off his window. A seagull had crashed, two ravens bounced around behind it, looking for an easy meal. The seagull got into a half-flight and the ravens shot at it. It crashed, sideways, wing into the asphalt, but it wasn’t ready to give up and scurried under a parked BMW five-series. The ravens circled and when the coast appeared clear, the gull jetted, but no longer had the power of flight. The ravens heard and flew. Sickening sounds resounded from the gull’s beak as the ravens pecked into its head. It stopped finally and the ravens feasted.

  That’ll be you if you try anything with a man that can control minds.

  His stomach growled and bubbled. Out the window was a McDonald’s. Eating made him think of his mouth, thinking of his mouth made him think of… The coffee pot shook off of its little base when Ivan slammed his fists hard against the table.